Anger
by afreckledangel
Summary: Demon!Dean has to take out his anger in some way, and he does so in the only way he knows best: killing.


Anger, that's all he felt. It coursed through his body, igniting his limbs and blurring his vision, banishing all thought from his mind except the urge to kill. He wanted to feel that satisfaction in burying a knife in a body and watching the life leave the person's eyes and hear their last breath leave their body. He needed to do it, he had to go, the agitation in his veins was becoming unbearable.

He had no regard for who he killed, he didn't care if it was a monster or an ordinary citizen, he had to do it, it had to happen. He waited in an alley, his back against the brick wall and his collar turned up. His hands were shoved in his pockets and to any passersby, he appeared as a person not to be trifled with. He stood next to the back door to a bar. His heel repeatedly bounced against the ground as he waited impatiently. Finally, after a half an hour of waiting, the door burst open and a drunken man stumbled out. Dean felt a flash of annoyance; drunks were no fun to kill, they hardly reacted and fought weakly. He wanted a fight, but more than that he just wanted to kill. Getting over his annoyance, he called out to the man.

"Hey, buddy, come here for a second."

The man stood up straight, his footing uneven. He squinted into the darkness, attempting to determine who was getting his attention. Dean took the moment to size him up. The man was wearing a ratty pair of jeans and a shirt that was too big for him, and his hair was sticking up in all different directions. After squinting a few moments, the man shuffled forward, his arms staying by his side. Dean could tell he was heavily intoxicated.

"Who are you?" the man slurred, continuing to stare, eyes narrowed, at Dean.

"It doesn't matter," Dean said, stepping forward slightly. When the man didn't react, Dean took more steps forward, stopping within five feet of the man.

"So why do you want me to come closer?" the man asked, straightening his shoulders and ceasing to squint.

"Because," Dean said, grinning because he knew what came next, "I want to kill you."

The man's eyes widened, and he moved to turn and run toward the street. His slow reflexes, however, caused him to trip over his own feet and fall backwards, hard, onto his elbows. He cried out and Dean took the opportunity. Rushing forward, Dean took the blade from the inside of his jacket and drew it to the man's neck. He pulled it swiftly across the man's throat, and blood quickly began spilling out. The man attempted to scream, but the only noise that came out was a weak gurgling sound.

Grabbing the man by one arm, Dean dragged him deeper into the alley, masking both of them from view of the street. The man grabbed at his throat, his hands getting coated in his own blood as he only accomplished smearing more of the blood across his throat, on his shirt collar, and on his chin. When Dean had dragged him far enough, he pulled him to his feet. With a small smile, Dean forced the man to look in his eyes. As his eyes flicked to solid black, he smiled bigger. If the man was able, he would have screamed.

Readjusting his grip on the handle of his blade, Dean held the man up by the collar with his left hand and with his right, he embedded the blade in the man's lower stomach. A choking gurgle came from the man's throat as Dean twisted it and pulled it upward. Twisting it once more, Dean pulled it back out just below the man's ribcage. His own hand was now covered in the man's blood. Dean pushed him back until he was pressed against a wall.

"Any last words?" he growled, his face serious. When the man floundered to speak, Dean hissed, "I didn't think so." He raised the knife up and with all the force he could muster, stabbed the man on the left side of his chest. A broken half-scream erupted from the man, causing Dean to remove the knife from his chest and bury it into the man's neck, immediately silencing him. As he watched, the man struggled for air and his eyelids fluttered. Dean released his shirt collar, allowing the man to slide to the ground. The man slowly stopped moving and, finally, relaxed into a slump against the wall.

It wasn't enough. Damn, it felt good, but it was not enough. He wasn't satisfied, it hadn't relieved him of all his anger. Staring down at this man, Dean felt the flashes of anger and that urge to kill come back. Why hadn't this been enough? He studied his work, the stab wounds in the man's neck, the bloody mass in his stomach area, the tear in his heart area, and the slit across the man's throat, but it didn't feel like he wanted it to. The anger still pulsed through his chest, his arm, and to the ends of his fingers. He had to do it again.

Suddenly, there was a shout from the end of the alley. Dean's head snapped up, and the smile spread across his face again. There were two men running toward him. Finally, good, a fight and good deaths. When the first man reached him, Dean tightened his grip on the handle and reached up, slicing the man's throat, this cut deeper than the dead man's. A short gurgle came out as the man fell to his hands and knees. Dean turned to the next man and repeated his actions, causing this man to stumble and lean against the wall, one hand at his throat, attempting to stem the blood that poured from the wound. It seeped between his fingers and dripped down his neck and into his jacket. His partner on the ground was having more of a problem; it dripped onto the ground and was already forming a dark puddle on the cement.

"Ready for more, boys?" Dean asked. He was relaxed, casual, his free hand hanging loosely at his side while his right hand with the blade twirled and played with the weapon. He beamed at the men, as though they weren't staring at him, eyes huge, gagging on the blood that wouldn't stop trickling from their necks. It was the man still on his feet who acted first. He stepped toward Dean, curling his free hand into a fist and swinging. It was too slow, but Dean decided to play with him and ducked underneath it all the same. As the man stumbled forward from the momentum of his swing, Dean stepped into him, shouldering him and causing him to fall over.

By that point, the other man had risen to his feet and came, full speed, at Dean and caught him in the back, knocking the breath from him. Stumbling forward, Dean managed to catch himself on the wall, scraping one hand on a fragment sticking off the wall. He whipped around and found himself face-to-face with the man, whose hands immediately wrapped around Dean's neck. Although blood kept dripping from the wound on his own neck, the man held tightly, constricting Dean's windpipe and preventing him from breathing. Dean's head hit the wall behind him, and for a moment, he saw stars. His hands grasped the wrists of his attacker. For a few moments, he was sure he had lost the fight, but something gave him a sudden burst of energy. Dean brought his knee up and felt it connect, hard, with some part of the man. As the man's grip loosened, Dean reached forward and grabbed the man's head and brought it down, connecting it to his knee. The man fell to the ground and lay still.

Dean didn't have a moment to catch his breath. The other man's fist hit Dean across the nose, causing him to grunt loudly and stumble backwards a few steps. When he straightened, he saw the man approaching. Raising the knife again, Dean brought it around from the right, burying it in the man's side. Before he had time to remove it, the man collapsed to his knees and the blade drew up, creating a large wound from his left side up to the right side under his ribs. Dean pulled it out and dragged the man to his feet. He brought the knife low and stabbed the man in his thigh. He pulled it out and stabbed again, and again, and again. He finally stopped and the man fell, flat on his face.

Both men were down and would not be fighting anymore. The repeated stabbing of the man's leg had felt good, it had finally brought the satisfaction Dean had been looking for. He wanted more of it.

Walking a few feet down the alley, Dean lifted up the man who had tried choking him. He brought him over to where his friend laid and put him down, laying him next to his friend. Looking down at them, he noticed they had similar features. Their hair was dark and they had the same nose. They must be brothers. This brought a sadistic smile to Dean's face.

"Well, boys, this really is the end, isn't it," he said.

He crouched so he could reach them better. The man whose torso had been ripped open was still conscious, gripping at his wound. Dean flipped his knife so the blade was pointed down. Both his hands met together as he lifted it above his head. The man turned his head and looked up at Dean. Smiling serenely, Dean flicked his eyes to black once again.

"Adios," he said. He brought the knife down into the middle of the man's chest. He brought it up again and back down, continuing to do so until the man's chest was riddled with bloody holes. Blood splattered across Dean's face, adding to the manic grin he had. After watching the man's eyes become glassy, Dean turned to his brother. He had come to, and now had tears running down his cheeks. This made Dean curious. He stood and circled the brother. He bent down and reached into the man's pocket, pulling out his wallet. Upon opening it, Dean found a picture of a family, featuring the owner of the wallet as the father. A beautiful, blonde woman had her arm around his waist, a large grin on her face. Two young boys stood in front of them, each almost exact miniature copies of the man.

"You have a nice family," Dean said to the man, motioning with the wallet. "It's too bad you didn't get to say goodbye."

He dropped the wallet on the ground, and the man's eyes followed it. The man glanced up at Dean, and then closed his eyes. Taking the knife once more, Dean stabbed it into one of the man's legs. It jerked from the sudden pain. He repeated the action, this time on the other leg. It, too, twitched madly. Moving up the man's body, Dean pulled his shirt up, revealing the man's stomach. It was heaving wildly. Holding the knife carefully, he carved a deep mark into the man's skin. Finally, he took it and stabbed it into the man's chest, finally finishing the job.

Returning to his feet, Dean surveyed the alley. Three bodies were strewn across it and trails of blood followed them. He looked at his hands and was pleased to see that the blood coated his hands and was beginning to dry. His anger was finally gone. And it felt great.


End file.
